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The GREENBOOK 

Being 

A Book 

Of 

Compositions 

By 

The Freshman Class 

Of 

Eastern Nazarene College 

1966 



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To one who has taught us how to speak and be heard; 
who speaks silently with her Christian life; 

who attains new heights and stops to help others 
along the way — 

We, the 1966 GREENBOOK staff dedicate this book to 



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The Greenbook Staff 
\70uld like to exuress their appreciation 
to our advisor and professor 

Alice Spangenberg 

for her timely help and understanding 
in the compilation of 
this year's Greenbook. 



The staff would like to thank 



Mr John MacDonald 

of the Bay State Bindery 
for his interest and assistance 
in the publishing of the Greenbook. 




EDITOR-IN-CHIEF 



SHARON TOWNSEND 



BUSINESS MANAGER 



DOUG CASWELL 



ART EDITOR 



ROBERT JOHNSON 



FEATURE EDITOR 



ELAINE SLOAN 



LITERARY EDITORS 



HELEN SICKEL 
BILL TURNER 



SECRETARIAL EDITOR 



CAROL WRIGHT 



PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR 



ALAN MORVAY 



CLASS REPRESENTATIVES 



PAT BRAGG 

KEN GOSS 

PAT HENDERSON 

JUDY MARTIN 

ROSE MARZULLO 

RUSS MOLLICA 

LYNNE NORSE 

CRAIG RICEEY 

GRACE ROSENBERRY 

BARB RHODES 

GAIL STRONG 

GLENNIS WILLIAMS 



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11 rivers run into the sea - vet the sea is not full." This is our 
theme for this vear's GREENBOOK . We have divided our book into 
five rivers: Environment, Experience, Religion, Knowledge, and Society. 
Each of these rivers runs into the sea, the Sea of Life. Let us consider 
this for a moment. 

We are each sailing in our own shin on this sea. As we move down 
the sea we don't notice each separate river as it flows before us. But 
yet each river needs to be considered by itself. 

The River of Environment changes at times as it moves along. In the 
normal course of events people and places change. We as humans change as 
our environment and all it contains changes. 

Experience is known to be the best teacher. We encounter experiences 
of all varieties in our everv day living. These shape us, mold us, tear 
us down, and build us up. Experiences come in many shapes and sizes as 
the rocks in a river but they all nlay an important part in making us 
whole people. 

The River of Religion plays a vital role in our sea of life. We have 
to believe in something to exist. Most of us have been taught to believe 
in One Supreme Being. And we have been shown what a personal encounter 
with a Living Savior can do for us. We sometimes run into cross-currents 
in our sea. But if we turn the helm of our ship over to the One who can 
do all, He guides us over the bounding waves and steers us around the hidden 
dangers . 

The River of Knowledge widens as it runs into the Sea of Life. It 
starts the day we are born. And it never reallv ends even after it goes 



into the sea for we are constantly learning. We here at E.N.C. are fortunate 
in being able to further our education. But what we are really learning is 
how to nut our newly acquired knowledge and that which we have alreajL learn- 
ed to the best use we can. The River of Knowledge flows continuously. 

Finally, the River of Society is made by each of us. We are all humans, 
made by the same Creator but all made differently. We live our own lives 
but yet we are dependent on each other. At times this river runs smoothly 
and at other times it is a rushing torrent. We learn what course our ship 
should follow for each personality we meet. 

"Yet the sea is not full." This sea is the most modern thing we have 
today. At the next port we may run into difficulty or pleasure but we as 
freshmen at E.N.C. in 1966 are learning to be the whole person we should 
be as we sail on the Sea of Life. 

Sharon Townsend, Editor 









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t was a still, dark night. There was a cool breeze blowing. 

The water of the bay was black and deep. All around me was 
the rippling, dark bay. The small fish broke the surface of the water, 
glided through the air, and sank back into their inky homes. Though 
all around me was this peacefullness , the stillness of the night made 
me shudder. The great expanse of water seemed to surround me and make 
me its prisoner. With the coming in of the tide, the water drew closer 
and closer to me, cutting me off from the land. I knew I had to get 
back to the shore or I would be lost in the deep blackness of the bay. 
As I ran toward the shore, I felt the icy water at my feet and realized 
the terror of being taken by the sea. 



Kay Foote 



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t was such a beautiful way to end the day.... to walk along 
the seashore and gaze out on the horizon. I have walked and 
watched this old sea for many years. I feel as though I know her as 
an old friend. Yet I never cease to be amazed by her ever-changing 
temperament. One hour she may be calm and tranquil and the very next 
hour become a sea of raging fury. 

Perhaps my favorite time to be near her is in her raging furv. 
It is then she displays her real inward self that can only be under- 
stood by those who dearly love her. It is now that I feel mv deep- 
est love for her as I stand watching her take out her anger on the 
rocks that line her shore. She seems to fall as though the rocks have 
taken her freedom. I can see she longs to tear at their sides sot'that 
she might be free to roam elsewhere, perhaps then to find peace. 

I can't help feeling pity as I see her beat upon rocks time and 
time again, only to fall back bruised and defeated. Yet I know it 
is not her fault that she relentlessly throws herself against the rocks 
that tear and cut her flesh. It is the turbulance which lies within 
her and the constant pressure of her external surroundings. What a 
chaotic life she must lead, seeming constantly to be in a state of 
turmoil. 

Even though some days she ceases to take her spite out on the 
rocks and her surface is calm, just under her surface is turmoil and 
unrest. The sad thing is, she will never change. 

If she were to flow into a reservoir, I know she x^ould change: 
she would find peace. Though a reservoir is deep, it is calm because 



it is protected on all sides; the protection impedes the tormenting 
external forces. But I know my dear sea would never consent to be a 
reservoir: she would have to give up too much of herself. 

Sharren Shelton 





he sun appeared in all its splendor over the horizon. The light 
pinks, blues and reds seemed to blend together to a form of colored 
picture in the sky. The only sound heard was that of the waves lap- 
ping gently against the shore. The water sparkled as the first of 
the sun's rays hit it. The sky and the earth seemed to blend into 
one. Some birds soaring overhead looking for food while other birds on 
shore were singing of the new day. The trees stood glistening with 
early morning dew. The sand was damp to the touch. The dew was still 
sparkling on the grass in the early morning light. On land a man 
left for work and a dawning of a new day began. 

Susan hopcraft 




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£% ne of my favorite hobbies is that of "people watching." When 
J I am at home I like to attend an evening concert and, sitting 
back, watch the audience as it arrives. 

I see a middle-aged couple coming in now. Perhaps they are cele- 
brating their anniversary tonight by going to dinner and then this 
concert. They look at each other as if to say, "Tonight is ours and 
the music is just for us." 

A group of high school seniors now enter. They look so grownup 
in their evening clothes. They have rather serious looks on their 
faces tonight; they are here on assignment and they prepare to take 
notes to report hack to choir class. 

Seating himself now is a man who might be a salesman-? lie sits 
in a reflective mood, knowing his work is done for the week and pre- 
paring to relax and enjoy himself for an evening of song. 

Against the back wall I see framed in the entrance a young boy 
and girl, hesitating a little as if neither was certain of which direc- 
tion to take. Reaching a mutual agreement they take their seats for 
the evening. The look on their faces is the look of youth "turned to- 
ward the future yet unblemished by the past." 

As I look around me I see a mother trying to control a squirming 
eight-year-old whom she has brought to be influenced by the cultural 
night. On her face is a look of patience and f orebearance . 

The box seats this evening hold some very fascinating people, 
one of whom is an influential society woman, her looks and manner 
are sophisticated, and she views the crowd almost with disdain. 



At last the maestro of music for the evening steps upon the stage. 
His look is that of a showman : proud, haughty, and full of assurance, 
he lifts his baton, and the many faces and looks of the audience become 
one, that of enchantment as they are transported into the magical world 
of music. 

Sharon Towns end 



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ave you every sat in the library and watched the people? I mean 
just sat there and looked around. That is almost an education in 
itself. 

After scientifically running this experiment several times, I have 
come to the following conclusions through diligent observation: Three 
kinds of people come to the library — those who study, those who intend to 
siudy, and those who don't study. 

Those students who come to the library to study are always very easy 
to distinguish from the others. They have a certain determined, do-or- 
die look about them. Heading straight for the back of the library, they 
sit facing the wall, preferably in an isolated corner, purposefully open 
their books, and are lost in the thoughtful recesses of their minds. 

But not everyone is so dedicated. The students who intend to study 
just haven't quite the intense, determined look the first type have. As 
they enter the library, they gaze around, looking for a friend to sit with, 
(Even though they, too, might face the wall, in doing so they often face 
a friend.) It's a pity that good intentions are easily forgotten, for, 
alas, the book is opened, but they don't remain lost in thought very long. 
Other sounds and thoughts creep in. It's much more interesting to talk 
to the one on the left or right or across the table. The fact that the 
chemistry isn't being studied or the calculus problems are not done is 
frequently lamented. Of course, one may learn the latest gossip or get 
a date to the big party, but the studying remains unfinished despite 
good intentions. 



Those students who come to the library not to study, open the door 
and walk in with a definite swagger. They cast their eyes about seeing 
where they can see the prettiest girls or the handsomest guys. Naturally 
a seat facing the door about in the middle of the room is the best vantage 
point. That way these students can have a good view of everyone who comes 
and goes. Sitting down, they half-heartedly open a book, flip through the 
pages, look up as someone walks by, flip a few more pages, glance at the 
door, and go through this precedure several times. They may even go to 
the card catalogue to make their stay seem meaningful. But all they ac- 
complish is an interesting evening doing nothing. 

As I sat in the library, almost laughing to myself, the thought came 
to me that life would be terribly dull without other people to provide a 
side show. Then, I wondered, do other people ever consider me a source 
of free entertainment? 

Carol Wright 




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s I awakened to the soft music flowing from the speaker, I 
realized a new day was unfolding. Outside the birds were 
singing merrily, ushering in the new day. In the distance the water 
in the stream, constantly splashing against the rocks, seemed to be 
beckoning me to arise for a new day was here. Not wanting to leave the 
confines of my bed, I lay there lazily absorbing these sounds of the 
morning. And for one brief moment I was brought back to reality by 
the stern, loud shouting of the councillor's voice warning of duties 
and roll call. The sun was just peeking over the crags of the White 
Moutains in New Hampshire. The morning fog, like a white scarf, clung 
to the mountains and rays of light filtered through like fingers. 
The grass was wet with the new morning dew and the signs of the night 
life were imprinted in it. The rabbit, deer, and other little animals 
who had visited the night before had melted back into the forest pri- 
meval. The pines and maples blowing in the morning breeze were 
reaching out to us, beckoning to us to save our wild-new wild- 
erness, our woods from exploitation. It felt good to breathe the fresh 
clean, unpolluted air that is not prevalent in urban areas of the 
country; to look over the horizon and see no signs of human 
life for miles around, no slums nor industry. Away from the turbulance of 
the city, the stress of everyday life, I never realized such peace 
and beauty existed; that it could almost be a welcome experience to 
awaken to such serenity, to receive such a sense of well-being, to 
be glad to be alive, and to be able to absorb all this glory. 



Man's omnipresent hand had not reached out into this wilderness. 
This inspiration gave me a new insight. If people were allowed to 
build where all these natural monuments are, there would be no nature, 
only a country of steel, cement, and smoke. What can be done about 
this corrosion of wild life? The government has set aside land not 
to be used for development. But there are not enough of these parks 
and conservatories for wild life. Because of the steady population 
explosion, and the need for more housing, slowly before our eyes this 
frontier is being taken bit by bit. 

No matter what science or industry achieves, nothing can compare 
to the beauties of nature; beauty and the majesty of perfection which 
God has created. 

Francis Cuchiari 



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y roommate's side of the room is so often in such an interes- 
ting state of being that we, my other roommate and I, decided 
it was worthy of a title. Being rather unoriginal, we quickly came 
up with the name "Farren's Croner." 

"Farren's Corner" is composed of two corners and the connecting 
wall. Along this wall and in the right corner is Farren's bed. Along 
this wall and in the right corner is Farren's wall. If the wrinkles are 
any indication of age, this bed must have been created on the "eight" 
day. The spread looks as though it fled from the pillow and huddled 
itself at the foot of the bed, ready, at the slightest impulse to leap 
to the floor. The pillow and sheet looK like "before" on a washday 
laundry soap commercial. 

Farren's desk, which stands next to the bed, is covered with a 
multicolored line that is a thick frosting of papers and books. This 
mess is closely guarded by an overlapping cyclops, the desk lamp. 

In the left corner is Farren's closet. The shirts and pants form 
a colorful line that waits for one, then another of its various shaped 
numbers to be used. However, the closet seems to be rather sparsely 
populated. This is not because Farren does not oim many clothes, but 
because he has a habit of leaving his clothes everywhere but where 
they belong. In fact the desk chair, decorated with two shirts, three 
socks, an a jacket that resembles a contortionist in action, looks 
more like a closet than a closet does. 

The last piece of furniture is Farren's bureau, the floor. It 
is there that Farren keeps his socks, shoes, pajamas, "Sundies Undies", 



and often a shirt or two. Those articles of clothing undoubtedly 
manage to get stepped on or kicked around, much to Farren's dismay. 
After all, he likes to keep things as neatlyas possible. 

Greg Markel 




StMDiOSSSIHIT 



mong the inhabitants of Somerset, only a few ever had their 
senses stirred or stimulated by the beauty of their town on 
a winter morn. Only a few ever had their eyes filled with the sights, 
their ears filled with the sounds, their nostrils filled with the air, 
or their hearts filled with the spirit of a winter morning on top of 
the Laurel Mountains of Pennsylvania. I was one of those few. As a 
morning newsboy, I was able to stand back and watch the town awake , 
stir its fires, and shovel its way to the office, to the garage, or 
to the school. I chose as my observatory a quiet clearing on the side 
of a hill overlooking the town. 

As I stood on that spot one particular morning in early winter, 
the only signs of life that I could see were the milkman making his 
early deliveries and the cinder trucks preparing the streets for the 
day ahead. All else was still. The courthouse dome and the many 
chimneys which sent thin, shaky wisps of smoke into the crisp morning 
air reminded me of candles on a large white birthday cake. The new 
snow on the dull street lamps made them look like diamonds embedded 
in fluffy clean cotton. 

I could detect the distant, muffled hum of traffic on the turn- 
pike which passed near the edge of town. The slam of a door meant 
that a man was going to work the "early shift" or an energetic house- 
wife was bringing in the milk before it froze. As the morning progres- 
sed and the sun began to appear in the clear eastern sky, I heard the 
hum of spinning wheels and the screech of a rapid reversal of gears 
above the clang of chains on the recently plowed streets. 



As I stood there taking in the beauty and tranquility of the 
early morn, I found myself deeply inhaling and then reluctantly re- 
leasing the clean, fresh, cold air. It made me want to act, move, 
jump, run or even roll down the hill in that soft, fluffy snow. 

I couldn't help feeling deep in my heart that there couldn't 
be a more pleasant spot on earth. As I glanced about me, I could 
find nothing hostil or unfriendly, nothing ugly or repulsive, de- 
pressing or disheartening. All seemed happy and gay. It seemed as 
if the spirit of Christmas was pervading the air. I wanted to linger 
on that peaceful spot but the tolling of the courthouse chimes caused 
me to realized that I would have to hurry to make it to school on time. 
As I hurried down the hill, I found it hard to imagine that I was be- 
coming a part of that awakening populus — awakening to the beauty that 
surrounded them. Why? Because they failed to take the opportunity to 
stand back from the town and view their home on a calm, tranquil winter 
morning . 

G. David Lmmitt 



\J| onfusion is a way of life in my house. This has always been 
j~\ accepted as a normal way to live until recently when a friend 
opened my eyes by making a gift of a sign reading "To avoid confusion: 
ALL TRAFFIC THIS WAY" with arrows pointing in every different direction. 
It was then that I started to compare the hectic excitement which us- 
ually prevails in my house with the more serene atmosphere of other 
homes. Next I tried to analyze why. 

One reason might be the fact that my father has never been tied 
down to regular xrorking hours. This means that any time he. is in the 
mood to go somewhere or do something he just walks in the door and says, 
"Come on, we are going". It is a continual surprise to me that he 
hasn't been permanently discouraged because of what immediately follows 
this remark. Anyone wishing to see Webster's definition of chaos in 
action should watch my family prepare to go on an outing. Have I 
said enough? 

Other reasons are a telephone that is almost never idle, combined 
with a family that would hardly ever consider answering the phone with 
a formal hello. Instead one hears anything from "Grand Central Station" 
to "Jake's Bar&Grille." If one of the numerous little boys who seem 
always to be going through the house should answer the telephone, one 
would hear, from a serious but childish voice, "Sheriff Joe's Office. 
If the person calling wanted me, the answer might be "She is in jail 
for sixty days-call back". 



My folks have always welcomed company. As a result the front 
door is almost as busy as the telephome. Discussions rage on almost 
every conceivable subject, and no one seems concerned that many sentences 
are never finished, much less even heard. Above the sound of voices 
one hears various rock and roll songs originating from transistor 
radios and record players. Oh, what blissful peace if there is a 
western on television to distract the small boys. Lacking this, one 
may be sure that they are either stalking some imaginary foe or the 
poor defenseless cat, deluding themselves into believeing she is an 
elephant on a rampage. 

Cleo, our beagle, is a restless soul, but can she be blamed? 
It seems as though she js always either at the front door barking to 
be let into the house or at the back door barking to be let out. The 
rest of the day she spends eluding the baby, who seems to be gleefully 
trying to shorten her tail or her ears. 

The baby has fitted into the family perfectly. He seems to 
realize he must add his share to his mass confusion. If left unat- 
tended he heads for his older brother's room, where he. proceeds to 
squeeze the turtle, taste the lizard, and overturn the bird cage. 

Can anyone doubt that the sign has found its proper resting 
place? 

Carol Gamble 




t is dusk. The last rosy glow of the setting sun is begin- 
ning to fade into the night sky. The clouds creep across 
the sky — soft, fluffy, and grey. 

Silence rules in the forrest. Sleep has stilled the singing of 
the chickadees and snowbirds, the chattering of the squirrels, the 
barking of the foxes, the scampering of the chipmunks, the honking 
of the pheasants. Even the owls are sleeping. 

Noise rules in the city. Cars are honking, coughing, growling, 
squealing, purring. Shoppers whistle, sing, laugh, yell, while tramp- 
ing, marching, strutting, or sauntering. Trollup roar, busses rumble, 
trucks chug. 

It is evening now. The sky is dark. No moon or sparkling stars 
brighten the heavens. A cold, soft, white, fluffy thing falls slowly 
silently to the earth. Another falls, and then another. It is snow- 
ing. 

Into the silent forest the snow flakes drift settling down 
ever so softly on tree, bush, animal, and earth. Snow frosts the 
forest, covering the bareness, the deadness, the dirt. 

Onto the noisy city the snow flakes slowly, softly settle, like 
feathers shaken from a downy pillow. They melt on the street, the 
building, the sidewalks. They cling ever so gently to the shoppers 
hair, coats, mitten, whitening the hair, ornamenting the clothes. 
One flake brushes across a cheek, a nose, an ear and leaves a rosy 
hue behind. It is not long, though until the streets and sidewalks 



are covered. Footsteps are no longer heard except for an occasional 
crunch. Everywhere the noise is muffled — silence almost reigns in 
the city. 

Karen Doane 






e went for a walk in the park Sunda}^, the dog and I. It was 
late in the afternoon, and late in the year, too, for that 
matter, but there were compensations. The low sun covers more of your 
back after three o'clock, makes longer shadows, and the pari: is not so 
crowded — just a few old regulars: Mrs. Peabody, the old retired school- 
teacher: Mr. Stevenson, the lumberjack from Canada; and a few other 
younger couples. The dog and I knew most of them. 

It was lovely out here, sort of away from the noise of the city 
and crowded sidewalks. We walked through the leaves, most of them 
very dry and crackly. We walked along the path by the lake and found 
a bench to sit on. I put Smoky on his long leash so he could explore 
the area, lie poked around the leaves, followed a squirrel that cursed 
him, sniffed all the spots dogs always sniff, and met three Other dogs, 
one very interesting and the other two far below his concern. 

While we studied the ground and listened to the few noises, a 
squirrel chattering and few birds singing, I enjoyed the day-maybe 
the last one of this year. The low sun warmed one side of me and the 
lake breeze cooled the other, but by moving occasionally I was able 
to keep a comfortable balance. Sitting quitely I soaked up as much 
as I could of the vanishing autumn: enough for the long cold months of 
winter . 

The lake was mearly calm, except for a few ducks floating around. 
The lake breeze stirred the last few reluctant leaves on the oak trees, 
and whistled in the pines at the other end of the lake. The leaves 



gave the air a delicate dusty, musty smell, hard to separate from 
the thicker scent of cold water on wet pebbles. I envied the dog 
and his capacity to isolate and pick up all of the smells of his 
superior nose. 

Passing strollers walked faster than they had all year, a few 
nodded their heads, but most walked straight by. Far dox^n the lake 
shore that small flock of ducks took off, circled once over the little 
clearing, then disappeared in the sun — perhaps starting the first 
lap of their southward journey. 

As if the ducks departure was a signal, the sun grew cooler and 
the breeze picked up and became downright cold. Reluctantly I called 
Smoky back to my bench, coiled his long leash and headed home, zipping 
my parka a little higher as we walked into the wind. 

Yvonne Davis 







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he day was Tuesday, November 9, 1965. The time was about 
5:30 P.M. Commuters were leaving Boston and students at Eastern 
Nazarene College were either eating, or had just finished their meal. 
Dressed in my sweat-clothes, I was preparing to go to the gym. As I was 
seated on my bed, my lights started to grow dim and then they suddenly 
brightened, blinked twice, and my room was plunged into total darkness. 
I thought a fuse had blown but after hearing screams from across campus, 
I noted the entire area in darkness. Turning on the radio, I soon dis- 
covered that all of Boston was also dark. No explanation could be given. 
For a moment I was afraid we were under a state of emergency alert. 
Then some friends came into my room and we settled down, in total darkness 
to listen to the transistor radio for futher reports. 

Below my room, on campus, confusion reigned. Students ran, if they 
had flashlights, and groped along slowly if they had only moonlight to 
guide them. Throughout the campus malicious mischief took place and 
nothing could be done to restore order. 

Then after two anxious hours, the news came that a "grid" had 
blown and light could be expected soon. The news was relieving. The 
fears of attack receded and we patiently awaited the return of lights. 

As we sat in the dim light of a single candle, we talked about what 
had, and was, happening. Could it be that a large portion of the United 
States could be darkened with such ease? One of the fellows took the 
opportunity to chid those who took advantage of it only showing their 
contempt for others. It seemed that light would never return. 



Our candle slowly melted away, and we knew just how important light 
and electricity were. 

Then about quarter past nine, the lights came back on. Some 
of the greatest cities in the world had spent four feverish hours 
without light. As I prepared for bed, I though how the situation had 
affected us. We are living in perhaps the most mechanized civilization 
the world has ever known, and in a matter of seconds, we could plunge 
into darkness and experience exactly what our forefathers had lived 
with daily. Without warning the "plug" could be pulled. Man's falli- 
bility can never be forgotten, no matter what precautions are taken. 

William Turner 



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bout one month before I came to college, my oldest brother 
Terry and I took our last trip together. It seemed like one 
of the longest and most dreaded triDS I have ever had to face; a ter- 
rible nightmare which in reality turned out to be a lost brother. 
The trip consisted of about one hundred thirty miles, but every inch 
seemed to be that much closer to eternal separation. 

The nightmare began with the buzzing of the alarm clock at 4:15 A.M. 
We had to rise and shine immediately in order to get to Syracuse on 
time. Even before we could start, though, we had to help him pack. 
There was a deadly silence which infiltrated every room and surrounded 
everyone that morning. It was extremely apparent in Terry: he could 
hardly speak for fear his emotions might seep through his hard outer 
shell. 

There he was ready to jump out of the plane at ten thousand feet 
into a maze of fire from Russian artillery. There he was, a horrified 
expression on his pale face, looking as if he had just met death face- 
to-face. His pulse quickened as he took the momentous step to the 
open door of the plane, for it was his turn to go out and try to defy 
death. 

"Are you just about ready to go, Stephen?" Terry questioned. 

"Sure, any time you are," I said. 

I went out to start the car and give Terry a chance to say good- 
bye. I had just gotten to the car when he grabbed Mom, gave her a 
big hug and kiss and then said, "Goodbye, Dad." He made a last lonely 
dash for the car, tears filling his eyes so that he could hardly see. 



He had to take time to compose himself right there while sitting in 
the driveway before he could even begin to drive. 

He had a chance to compose himself while we drove the fourteen 
miles to get my girl Carol. He tried to talk, but ended up not say- 
ing a word. I could feel the tugging that was going on in his heart 
and mind. One was pleading for just one more day, while the other 
said, "No! It's now or never." I could feel his throat wrenching 
with emotions. 

I would have given anything to take his place that day. Terry's 
dreading to leave so much really surprised me. Terry was not like 
that. Home was only a place to go when there was no other place to 
go. 

By the time we reached Carol's house, Terry's emotions had sub- 
sided to the point that he looked presentable to other people. Now 
there was a period of talkativeness in which he tried to drown his 
feelings by keeping his mind occupied. However, he was unable to keep 
his feelings hidden and they were apparent in his conversation. 

After a while there came a period of complete stillness. During 
that time it seemed that if a muscle was flinched, a glance or a move 
of any sort made, everyone in the car could sense it, to the extent 
that it was frightening. 

Our conversation centered around the scenery on St. Lawrence 
University's campus, how it would be in a few weeks when I began college 
at ENC. He told me what to do with his old cars. We also talked 
about what he would be doing in a few hours . 

I saw Terry sitting on his bed at night, waiting for light to 

go out, and thinking of home, of the friends he left, and of all the 
good times that were behind him. Then the dreary and sickening real- 



ization of the situation he was in suddenly hit, and his emotions got 
the better of him 

"We're just about there now," Terry said. We found the office 
building where he was to go, but because it was still early, we de- 
cided to look for a restaurant where we could get some breakfast. 

In the restaurant we could not even talk without our emotions 
showing through. It was quite a breakfast indeed'.! 

"Well, let's get over there before the place is packed," he 
said. 

When we went into the building, we stepped into a small room 
just in front of the elevator. A few people were beginning to appear 
now and were waiting for the elevators. 

We had fifteen minutes yet before Terry had to join the ranks 
and leave ground floor. Not one of us said enough to fill a thimble 

for there was nothing to say unless we wanted to talk of his coming 
trip. There appeared on Terry's face a look of loneliness, and we 
had not even left yet. The elevator came to take more passengers. 
It was too much to wait out the last fifteen minutes of agony. So 
Terry said, "Well, shall see. Write often." He turned his back 
and took his place in the elevator. As he turned to face us once more, 
there came the look of a brave ten-year-old saying his last goodbye 
to his parents. The door closed. At that instant I thought my heart 
would stop. 

When he said, "Well, shall see," there seemed to come a barrier 
between us that changed our brotherly relationship. Instead of break- 
ing it down to something less, it seemed to build it to something with 
more meaning. My brother is now an Air Foree man. 

Stephen Bellinger 



So^DMW 




hile I was thinking about some situation which makes my family- 
unique, a car screeched to a stop in front of our house. Although 
such a sound might frighten most people, it hardly disturbed my train of 
thought. After a while I reflected that I hadn't even noticed the noise. 
Then I realized that one thing unique about my family is that in the past 
year we have witnessed more serious automobile accidents than most people 
ever have the misfortune to see. 

Our house is situated at an extremely dangerous intersection on 
Route 28. Between Randolph and Milton Route 28 runs through the Blue Hills 
for three miles. The road is straight and very dark at night and it seems 
so desolate that few motorists travel under the 45 mph speed limit. Many 
speeders hardly notice the sign warning "signals over the hill." As they 
come over the hill into Milton, the traffic light at the corner looms up 
before them. If it is red some drivers manage to stop — panic stop — in 
time. Some are lucky that there are no cars in the intersection as they 
skid through. Others sound their horn with a prayer as they go flying by. 
Some are not so lucky. 

Whenever there is an accident at night, everyone in the house is up. 
My father rushes to the window to see how many cars there were and where 
they landed. I fumble to find the telephone to call the police, provided 
the telephone poles weren't knocked down. Then I take the telephone down- 
stairs because those still conscious often come in to make calls. Within a 
few minutes, four or five police cars are parked on our lawn as the officers 
attempt to extricate the passengers from the wreckage of their former vehicles 



The entire intersection is lighted by the blue and red beacons and the blaz- 
ing flares warning other motorists. This scene continues for two or three 
hours until the wreckers have hauled away all the debris and everything is 
returned to normal. 

Most of the people who enter our house to use the telephone are in a 
state of shock. I don't know how to describe the expression on the face of 
the teenager who wakes up his father after midnight and says, "Dad, I 
cracked up the car." All I know is that I'm glad I'm not in his shoes. 
Sometimes I prefer to leave the room when the situation is really tense, but 
I still remember the voice of the boy who called his girl friend's parents 
to tell them an ambulance was on the way to take their daughter to the 
hospital . 

One of the strangest phenomena we have noticed in automobile accidents 
is the sound of two cars crashing. The first time I heard a head-on col- 
lision, I couldn't believe that was what the sound was . I had expected to 
hear some noise like steel striking steel, but instead I heard an explosion 
followed by the shattering of glass. One day I was in the garage when I heard 
a terrific thud. My first thought as I looked out and saw dozens of small 
animals — chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, racoons — dashing for the woods was 
that the big oak tree had crashed through the roof above me. Before the dust 
had settled, my parents came running. They were afraid that the garage had 
blown up with me in it. We all realized that x^e had been mistaken when we 
ran into the open and saw a 1959 Cadillac pinned to a tree next to the 
driveway . 

After living here for a few months we noticed a strange coincidence 
about accidents. Very rarely does only one accident occur in one weekend. 
They usually happen in pairs. One night not long ago, there was a two car 



collision at midnight. By 2:30 AM the cars had been towed away, the glass 
had been swept up, and we finally settled down to try to get some sleep. I 
had just fallen asleep when I x^as literally shaken out of the bed by the thud 
of another collision. The car had gone through the traffic light and brought 
the telephone pole crashing down, just missing the house. Accidents usually 
do not come that close together, but if the night officer hears my voice on 
Friday night, he can often expect me to report another accident before Mon- 
day morning. 

These and other strange events involving automobiles have occured in 
front of our house which seems to be, as my mother says, in the middle of 
the Indianapolis Speedway. 

Manuel W. Aran 



^ 



*M»OD! 




y introduction to golf began on a warm, lonely summer day when 
I was thirteen. A pal said I could make some money carrying 
someone's golf clubs. Fine, I thought. I"ll make enough to buy a 
pair of baseball spikes and a fielders mitt. 

On that summer day I found my way to the Plymouth Country Club 
and entered a world of unbelievably clean grass on which men walked 
wearing red pants and white shoes and little white caps with the tops 
cut out of them. It was a polite, gentle world where, if you were in 
someone's way, they shouted "Fore!" instead of "Look out, buddy!" 

On the first day I was directed to the caddie master who told me 
to go wait down in the caddie shack until I was called. Soon, I and 
a few others were herded down to the fifteenth green, where the caddie 
master was waiting. It was the first golf green I had ever seen, and 
I couldn't believe it was made of grass. 

With the caddie master was a tall fellow of fifteen or sixteen, 
wearing a neat white cap and smiling confidently. He was a regular 
who demonstrated while the caddie master instructed us on the golf 
course behavior. 

"All right, lad, pick up that bag and carry it to the clubhouse," 
shouted the caddie master. 

He was looking right at me. I jumped up, hugged the bag of clubs 
to my chest with both arms, and began to walk away. 

"You expect to walk four miles holding a golf bag like that?"he 
asked. 

The bored regular caddie took the bag from me with one of those 



grins the experienced have for their inferiors. 
Take the underside of the long strap in the bottom of your 
right hand .... Swing the bag up and lay the stran onto you right 
shoulder. .. .-love the bag horizontally along your backside. .. .Hold 
the clubheads so they don't bang against each other ... .Don ' t forget 
it." 

I didn't. 

Each caddie had a number, the size of which was in proportion 
to his experience. My first number was twenty-nine. Out of thirty. 
It clearly marked my standing in the society of caddies. I was sud- 
denly a "flytrap", a caddie who can't find the ball, steps on it when 
he does, and usually walks through a sand trap instead of around it. 
But I made progress. I memorized words like "birdie, whisker," 
and "hit it stiff." As soon as I heard them I tried to use them. I 
wanted to belong. Occasionally, I left myself open for a hail of 
criticism. When I found that my player was two ur> with two holeSto 
go, I told the experienced caddies, "My man is Stymied in his match." 
They laughed, sneered, and smirked at me. "lie's dormied, flytrap. 
Stymie is when he has a tree in front of his ball, or a dumb caddie 
like you." 

I learned. 

Then the inevitable happened: I became a golfer. A neighbor 
gave me some old wooden-shaf ted clubs that had moldered in his base- 
ment, and a stiff, narrow, round canvas bag. I couldn't put the clubs 
down. In the house I was making shreds of the family rugs while prac- 
ticing my swing, and digging up the grass in the back yard on my chip 
shots . 



We always made sure we caddied over the weekend, the busiest 
days, because that qualified us to be in on that most important day 
of the week, Monday-caddie-day. Ue didn't mind that we had to be off 
the course by noon, or tbat the markers were positioned way ahead of 
the regular teeinp; ground. We had a chance to play on the rich splend- 
or of the country club. We had a chance to see how far we could hit 
it on the long fourth hole* what club we needed for the tough tenth; 
whether we could get home in two on the long par five sixteenth. We 
scattered over the course, hitting shots from everv imaginable angle — 
and some unimaginable. 

They were good days, those caddie davs . There were interesting 
people and interesting events and an entirely new society I never 
knew existed. And I became a walker, which is the best way to sec the 
world. I also found the true meaning of caddie. He is an extra pair 
of eyes to follow your ball, the fellow who hno T, s ever" blade of grass 
on the course and shares his knowledge with t : -ou. He's the boy who nuts 
back the golf course for you after an iron shot: who rakes sand traps 
after you get 6ut. He is an integral part of t r game and he always 
will be. 

Allen Tassanari 



n °\pjM 



tf= 




\_j everal of us had been diving around an old sunken schooner about 
r-» ) j forty feet below the surface. I had been at the wreck about twenty 
minutes and explored it thoroughly, salvaging items of interest. With this 
wreck cleaned I decided to search for another one alone. As I swam along 
I gazed wonderingly at each side, noting the beauty of the ocean floor and 
not paying attention to where I was going. To my right were large coral 
heads with colorful sea fans waving in the light current. On my left was a 
reef with lobster darting in and out and curious little fish coming to see 
who the intruder was. Finally I looked up and the sight sent paralyzing 
fear throughout my body. Two feet from my face plate was a six foot 
Barracuda staring right between my eyes. Everything seemed to close in about 
me as I realized my helplessness. Immediately I thought of the simple basic 
rules of diving that I had ignored: never dive without a buddy, always cover 
shiny objects such as a regulator with black cloth when diving in Barracuda- 
infested water, always use a life-line. Neither of us moved for what seemed 
an eternity. Then slowly he circled me and sx-7am off, leaving me a knowledge 
I will never forget. I had learned the hard way what true fear was. 

Dick Dever 




y famil}/ and I had our share of troubles when we took our 
do-it-yourself budget tour to Europe. Anyone can go to Europe 
and see all the famous places if he has unlimited funds. The trick 
is to do it while staying within the limits of a small and ever- 
dwindling supply of travelers' checks. Finding hotels, cars, and 
restaurants that would fi-t our budget was no easy task, but through 
careful planning and use of budget guide books , we managed to have the 
trip of our lifetime. 

The greatest economy we could make, we decided, was to rent small 
cars for our road transportation, thereby avoiding four separate fares 
on buses and trains. This procedure called for great adaptability in 
sometimes driving on the left , surviving the idiosyncrasies of European 
drivers, and reading strange signs from ,: Roundabout'' to "umluntan^ 1 . 
Of course, the smaller the car the lower the cost: so we always chose 
the smallest available, whether the car was a Volkswagen, Renault, 
Fia-t, or Miniminor. With little, horsepower to spare it was often 
questionalbe if we would get to the tops of the mountain passes with 
our full load on board. The problem of luggage and seating space for 
the family was often acute, especially when there were no roof racks. 
Then my sister would have to sit on the emergency brake while I would 
cope with a back seat full of suitcases. When we did have roof racks, 
we felt all was well until we ran into several days of rain. Then 
our evenings task would be to drape our damn clothing around our 
hotel room to dryv . 



Another requirement of a budget vacation is to find budget ac- 
commodations. Fortunately, we did have a number of friends and 
relatives abroad at that time and, of course, it was pleasant (and 
economical) to avail ourselves of their hospitality when possible. 
At other times, we followed the advice of the poor travelers friend, 
Europe on Five Dollars a Day . These accommodations were always clean 
and comfortable, but had disadvantages nonetheless. Our left-bank 
hotel room in Paris was sixth floor walk-up which left us breath- 
less on arrival. The absence of safety precautions left us ap- 
prehensive, too. It had an open stairwell, and the only fire escape 
was a wooden ladder, hung from the window, and broken off after the 
second rung. 

Another major problem was the language difficulty, especially 
when it concerned money. When we were in a restaurant, it was neces- 
sary to struggle with a strange menu. Meals were always a surprise, 
and often a disappointment. Although inexpensive by American 
standards, it seemed very high-priced on the numerous occa sions when 
we found it not to our liking. We remember the bitterness of the 
cheese fondu, the wine-flavored consomme' in Toledo and the cold fried 
octapus on Nazare. 

Strange money systems added to our confusions. We*d just get 
to shillings and pounds, then would find ourselves dealing in pesos 
or escudos. For the money-conscious traveler, these changes had added 
perils: mathematical mistakes in converting to U.S. terms; sometimes 
tipping the equivalent of a dollar when a quarter had been intended 
(and sometimes vice versa) ; and wondering if the "chambre pour quare 
personnes" was five dollars for all or five per person. 



Thus problems of the budget tourist are much greater than those 
of the well-heeled traveler, but we are convinced that expensive 
hotels and luxurious surroundings are not necessary for adventuresome 
vacations. Our fondest memories will always be those which came at 
bargain rates. 

Wayne Drake 



Sfc&WKOBO'ffiH 



t -..'as a hot August morning when I opened rny eyes and looked 
up to see grandfather's suntanned face. "Cornc to break- 
fast," he whispered. 

Grandfather had promised to take me with him to pick berries 
today. This would involve a long hike through the woods where one 
could determine the name of trees and plants and the many animals one 
might encounter along the trails. To me, he was the smartest grand- 
father in the whole world. 

We started out as the sun was appearing over the horizon. It 
would be a very hot day, but the iced coffee grandfather brought aloi 
in a whiskey bottle would quench our thirst. l T e hiked for what 
seemed like hours while grandfather, hAPPY as a clown, related stories 
of his childhood to me. Presently we came to our favorite spot for 
blueberry picking and commenced gathering berries for the hot nies 
and jellies mother would make. I could almost see the berries bubbl- 
ing in the pot, and smell the sweet aroma of baking pies. 

While gathering the berries , I strayed to an area I had been 
cautioned to stay away from. Grandfather, busily engaged in his work, 
was unmindful of my rambling. 

Suddenly, I became immobile, as though frozen. hot and cold 
flashes crept over my body. My knees smote, one against the otaer. 
I became very weak and nauseated. I was going into shock.. 

I sax; the head draw back. I became hypnotized by the two pro- 
trusive beads that eyed me so intently. I traced with my eves the 



diamond shapes on the coil, like a thick garden hose of heavy flesh 
ready to spring. The end of the hose stood erect and shook, back and 
forth, a hissing rattle. It was a warning, but too late. I had over- 
stepped ray bounds. Its head wavered back and forth, slowly, in a 
circular motion as though intoxicated. Then, like uncoiling springs 
it shot forth and sank a pair of sharp fangs into my thigh. 

Pain shot through my leg as if a dozen bolts of lightning had 
hit me. I reached for the enemy and tried to choke it. Angry and 
crying I began to pound its head with a rock. Soon it lay motionless 
in a pool of its own blood. 

Grandfather gathered me gently into his arms and carried me to 
a clearing where he laid me down. He cleansed the wound and administ- 
ered first aid from the snake bit kit he carried. I was quite ill and 
became unconscious before we arrived home. 

When I awakened I was lying on a bed in a room with other 
children. There was a tube coming from my nose and a needle inbedded 
in my arm. I was recieving fluid from a bottle overhead, through a 
tube into a needle. Mother and Father were there, and so was grand- 
father. He looked very sorry, as though he was to blame for my being 
bitten. I looked very kindly at his old face and asked, "Can we go 
berry-picking again, soon?" 

Joseph Echevarria 



JfiraUJI UJJLM&lflCi 



*"\ kicking up sides for a scrappy game of baseball was an everyday 
L— ^ occasion for the boys in my neighborhood. We were the future 
Mickey Mantles and Willy Mays that everyone talks about. At least 
that's what we and each of our fathers thought. Of course we always 
wasted half our playing time arguing about who would pitch and who 
would play right field. Occasionally a bloody nose would result but 
that was part of growing growing up. Most of the time my mother 
would receive a phone call from another mother and I would consequently 
get a lecture on respect for my playmates. But how could I keep my 
mind on the lecture when out of the window I could see the guys 
picking up another game of ball? I don't think my mother had her mind 
on the lecture either, because she never seemed to be listening to 
the other mother when talking to her. And besides, she always let 
me go right back out and play with a little wack on the behind to help 
me along. She probably never noticed but I always detected a slight 
smile along with that wack. I guess that is why it never hurt. 
The time finally came that we little guys had been looking 
forward to for a million years (at least it seemed that long to us). 
That time was "Little League" tryouts. sure, we were in the minor 
league but that was "bush league" as the older boys called it. Now 
we were in the big leagues. Talk about nervous boys! After all one 
did have to catch at least two out of ten grounders and go up to bat 
against one of the "older" boys, who must have been all of one year 
older than we. The taunting misinformation of my older brother 
didn't help either. By the time I got down to the tryouts I thought 



I was going to have to bat against Whitey Ford or Don Drysdale. 
I got through the grounding tryouts without too much trouble except 
for a skinned knee and elbow aquired while chasing a pop fly. If 
not ruined by that incident I certainly was demoralized. But a 
comment from an onlooker cheered me as I was coming to bat. "And here 
he comes to bats, folks, Ted Kluzuski. Ted was the muscleman of 
baseball at that time. Lucky for me, I was too young to realize he 
was being sarcastic, for I probably would have gone home that instant. 

The tryouts ended. The only thing to do was wait for the results. 
The major preoccupation that week wasn't picking up sides for a game, 
a newspaper boy was anxiously awaited. This went on for a few days 
until finally the list appeared. After reading through the names 
about thirteen times and still not finding my name, I realized I hadn't 
made the grade. As for how I felt, the world might as well have caved 
in. I had the sort of feeling that one gets when walking down the 
street of a large city by himself a little after midnight. No matter 
how many times my brother told me that a lot of other boys didn't make 
it either, he didn't really remedy the hurt in me. Of course my mother 
told me I would make it next year and she gave me all the rest of the 
sympathy lines. But next year was a year away and now what could I do? 

Of course it was all part of growing up, but at the time I did 
not knew that one grew up. To me life was just one big little league 
game. 

Tim Tarr 



n this hip generation, a new kind of sport is in. It is 
known as riding the waves, of surfing. Right now surfing is 
the rage. Surfing duds are hip and the surfing music is real cool. 

Any time that a surfer can leave his work, (it's a drag), he 
deserts his pad, hops into his crate and heads for the nearest beach 
where the surf is high. 

The real swinging surfer is a tall, slim, blond cat who dresses 
in clam diggers and a sweat shirt minus sleeves. Often he is seen 
squinting into the sun or surveying the deep, his blond beatle-do 
blowing in the wind and his bronze arm draped lovingly around or over 
his board. 

With a yell, the surfer sprints to the water's edge and makes 
like a fish as he heads for the rollers. After a considerable distance 
he finds a suitable in-going wave. If he is a grennie, he'll pro- 
bably get wiped out on his first trip in. However, after he has gotten 
the knack, the surfer will ride high-to the envy of the squares and 
the exclamations of "Real gear" from the birds or beach bunnies. 

Gail Nickerson 



c 



»: 




c 1 

^ < — ais was the moment . This v;as the beginning. Even though 

it was some distance away, Dad and I could hear the rumble of our 
friend's blue three-quarter ton Chevrolet truck as it dragged a compact 
twelve-foot Yellowstone house trailer down the rocky gravelled road to- 
ward our Idaho ranch house. We watched the headlights as they illuminated 
the barbed wire used to separate the fields from the cattle pens, and 
as they danced in the muddy water of the nearby canal. 

We stepped out into the steely, cold November night. From that 
moment I knew we were going to experience a demanding hunt. Yet I wel- 
comed the cold for I knew that within limits , the harsher the weather 
the better the hunt. 

We were prepared, though, for whatever nature had to offer. We 
were clad in thermal underwear, red flannels shirts, woolen pants, leather 
boots, blue ski parkas, and red vests. I wore a bright cossack hat. 
Dad, however, had on a red and green plaid Scottish ''tarn". This was the 
headgear he had worn when he bagged his elk. 

When the truck stopped at our home, our friend, a big German 
named Martin, jumped out. lie, too, was clothed in heavy hunting gear, 
along with a flame-colored cowboy hat. We assembled our guns, am- 
munitition and supplies, received my orders, of course unheeded, from 
"Mom" and departed. 

The cab seemed small and were somewhat cramped, but atmosphere 
was congenial. The warm air on my cheeks and the droning of the motor 



that made my face feel flushed and lulled me into a drowsy state. 
I was soon asleep. 

Several hours later, I awakened to find that we had left the 
irrigated plains of the Snake River Valley and were now in the rug- 
gud but glorious Salmon River country. Unlike the desert, here the 
terrain was steep and precipitous. The canyons were narrow and steep 
and covered, though sparsely, with tall, slender, straight lodgepole 
pines. Everything about the mountains and ravines denoted sparseness 
marked with grandeur and wildness. 

The Chevy truck swerved to the right and headed up a narrow 
tote road. The high, steady hum of the engine changed to a low growl 
as the driver shifted from fourth to second gear. Here in the high 
country, the snow was deep and fluffy, not hard and crusty as it was 
in the desert. 

As I ate a hunter's breakfast of bacon, eggs, hashed brown 
potatoes, toast, coffee, cereal, and doughnuts, I gazed out the door 
of the trailer into the gorge below. Across the canyon the lonely 
nothern pines stood erect as ramrods as they pointed upward toward 
the brilliant blue Western sky. A solitary cow moose was threading 
her way up the slope. She weight perhaps a half a ton, and yet her 
gait denoted sureness and ease. Except for an occa sional human voice, 
and the persistent "perking" of the coffee, everthing was silent 
but for the whimpering of the wind. 

Finally I turned my back on the beauty, seized my Winchester, 
and scrutinized my emergency snake bite and bandage kit. The wind 
was numbing. Already my red hands had blotches of purple on the knuckles. 

As I adjusted =my earf laps , I reflected on my reasons for leaving 



the warmth of my home for the coldness of the outside. Why, in fact, 
had I come hunting? Why do men leave, even temporarily, man-made 
comforts and trudge for hours through deep snow? Why do they endure 
the raw, biting, cutting, piercing, pinching, wintry winds? Why do 
they tolerate the damp underwear and soaked socks? I can answer 
these questions only for myself. I like the surroundings. Yet, that 
is only part of it. For hunting does not involve a place, it is rather 
a state of mind. It provides more freedom and adventure than any other 
sort of sport in the world. It is a challenge. I must be capable of coping 
with nature, as I will be destroyed by it. Commonplace move- 
ments, like rolling a sleeping bag, become important. A secret longing 
to revert to the nomadic ancestral ways of my forefathers seems some- 
how fulfilled. For these reasons I willingly forske luxuries and take 
to the wilderness trail. 

Ray Dinsmore 




BflOSOfF 





efore coming to college I always had plenty of money on hand 
to spend, most of the time unwisely. College has taught me 
that a penny earned is a penny to save. When I saw an inviting sweater 
in a store window I went in and bought it. Now I must disregard it 
and save the money for books, tuition or a date. "Let's go get a 
pizza" is an over-used exclamation in our clan. Eefore, I probably 
would have been the one saying it and the one furnishing the trans- 
portation. Now I must back out three out of four times. What will 
all of this tightness get me? Just a good education which I hope will 
give the chance to be a spendthrift the rest of my life. 

Jim Rapalje 



o o 



mm 



am 



CO^QO^OSOSDO^ 



1 he truly unique and independent thing in my life at present is 
to be an Episcopalian at Eastern Nazarene College. My first 
impression of the school was that of a friendly institution, where 
people could live together and learn together in a Christian atmos- 
phere. Many students, after finding out my denomination, wanted to 
know why I chose E.K.C. to continue my education. I would answer 
them by saying it was a small campus with Christian morals and 
scruples and compared to many of the other colleges, this school 
best fitted my academic, social, and religious needs. 

I adjusted to campus life very quickly but church life will 
take longer. The first Nazarene service I attended I felt strange, 
for the service was very different from my own. What really stands 
out in my mind about a Nazarene service are testimonies, where people 
stand and tell of past problems overcome or goals the have attained. 
This left me mystified, for here was the congregation actually tak- 
ing part in the church service. Another phase of the service 1 
found rather startling was that during the sermon many people would 
say Amen! or Hallelujah! audibly, so the whole church heard it. If 
that were done in my church, the rector would be both spellbound and 
shocked. One more item which fascinated me was seeing people who 
had a particular problem go to the altar rail to be forgiven. Some 
people would be sitting and some would be kneeling in back of the 
rail. In my church the only time the congregation goes to the altar 



is to partake of the sacraments of Holy Communion. 

I found that the Nazarene church is evangelistic. This was new 
to me, since I never attended an evangelistic church before. Of 
course, I recognized the name and associated it with Billy Graham. 
I came to the conclusion that many hymns sung during an evangelistic 
service were well-known among the congregation, since they could 
sing them without a book. It was an odd feeling to hear everyone 
singing a hymn that I never heard before. I didn't know whether to 
flip through the pages in the hymn book in order to find it, or 
mouth it as if I knew what I was singing. 

Many people may think that since I am a Protestant I should ad- 
just quickly to the Nazarene Church, and should not find it that 
different from my own church. If an individual has been brought 
up under the Episcopal Church, which is formal, and then goes to a 
more informal church, he notices the difference. Even the terminology 
is different in the Nazarene Church, for example, District Superin- 
tendent for Arch-Deacon. It is also strange to see a minister with- 
out his collar and clerical clothes. What I really miss in a Nazarene 
Church service is the procession. At this time during the beginning 
of the service, the crucifix (the cross-bearer), the flag bearer, 
the arolytes, the choir and minister (in that order) march to their 
pews while singing a hymn. In the Nazarene Church the choir and 
minister walk out onto the platform and take a seat, and for a couple 
of minutes I notice something humorous: the minister stares at the 
congregation and the congregation stares at the minister. 

I respect the Nazarene Church and find it interesting to see 



how other people worship God, but being an Episcopalian all my life, 
I still prefer a formal church service as found in my ox^n denomina- 
tion. 

Thomas Nichols 



C/&foOQS> 




hen one is eleven life is an adventure. Everything is alive. 
Birds sing songs especially for you ? trees can talk^ and 
animals are human. There are millions of games to be played and 
important things to do. 

It was at this strenuous and enthusiastic- stage of life that I 
went to camp. Although I had been there about four years earlier, 
I had not really appreciated it. 

At camp there was a host of activities to keep an eager enthus- 
iastic eleven-year-old busy. There were swimming, hiking, tennis, 
arechery , and others. One never could get lonely with so many friends, 
as anxious and excited as you. With such variety of people and activ- 
ities the only possible time we could ever get bored was just before 
mealtimes. But after we uad refueled, we would be ready for more 
excitement . 

Although I matured and grew through my contact with the friends 
and the things we did together, it is not this phase of camp life 
which most impressed me. 

I shall always remember the beauty of the still, dark woods and 
the softness of the dried pine needles on the path. Nor will I forget 
the ecstacy of sleeping overnight beside a lake with the moon reflec- 
ted in it, or singing around a campfire, or sitting atop a lofty mount- 
ain looking out on miles of the breathtaking beauty which Cod has 
created. 

Sue Mi t chum 



Aq&wmy 



"""" he warm summer breeze moved slowly over the rich green valley. 

The horses were there: bays, mares, stallions. They were large 
and small. They were every color. There were Arabians, Shetlands, 
Indian ponies, Western ponies, horses of every breed and country. This 
valley was theirs and they were content . 

All were content; all, that is, except the younger one who was 
of course restless and curious. "What is over these great mountains 
which make up the walls of our wonderful valley?" The young ones 
would ask questions like this as they trotted along. 

"Don't worry", said the older ones. "This valley is wonderful. 
Everyone regards it as such. Eat its rich grass and play and be happy." 

But the young ones were not content; so they crossed the mounttains 
and found what was happening in the valley on the other side of their 
mountains . And they were no longer ignorant . 

The young horses were alarmed as they ran back down into their 
valley. "Look, up behind our mountain. Do you see the smoke? There 
is a great fire creeping its way up the far side of the mountain. 
There are other horses there. They are fighting the fire. Some are 
being burned. Some are being stained by the dirty black smoke." 

With raised eyebrows the older horses listened. "Oh, that's 
terrible." one said. 

"Here, have some grass." said another. 

"Maybe we should do something." said another. 

One of the oldest asked, "How's our grass? Good, isn't it?" 

Robert Brickley 





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(A brief selection from the popular college text, A Critical 
History of the First Ten Millenni a by Dr. L. Raper, PhD. , 
B.S., B.A. , DDT., etc. Published by Mack Millan & Sons, 
11249 A.D. , Earth. This excerpt is taken from Chanter VI, 
"Sociological Problems of the Second Millennium," p. 1 34 ff. 
leprinted by permission.) 

K \ f all the mysteries of the latter half of the second millenium 

one in particular has been the subject of much controversy in 

recent years — the Santa Claus legend. The stories of Santa Claus were, 

for the last five thousand years, regarded purely as myths. What 

little was known of them was held to have absolutely no historical 

basis. This idea, however, has now been conclusively ckisproved as a 

result of the Fremann Expedition of 11230. Jr. Fremann and his 

colleagues, while plodding through the ruins of New York, stumbled 

upon definite evidence for the existence of Santa Claus. 

heedless to say, the archaeological world was both amazed and 

1 
delighted. The Fremann Expedition to the ancient Mew York region 

(which was sponsored by the National Archaeologists' Association) had 
started out with no other objective than a general perusal of the long- 
contaminated area. The great and unexpected discovery happened quite 
by accident. Dr. Fremann, who was leading the group, had just turned 
around to caution his men on the necessity of great care when he stumbl- 
ed backwards through an open doorway and fell, with a loud noise and 



1 There seems to be some difference of opinion as to whether hew York 
was a city or a state. For lucid representation of the pro and con 
arguments consult .'[idler's The Riddle of New York. 



many violent words , into a rather undignified and painful position 

2 

among the contents of the building. Later, when Dr. Fremann simmered 
down and his men returned, they began to realize the significance of 
their discovery. The building (one of the few yet standing) was fill- 
ed With small papers of various shapes, all of which contained pictures 
and short verses pertaining to Santa Claus. Unfortunately, the sign 
above the outside of the doorway ,r as damaged somewhat , and could only 

be partially read. It said, "GREETING ARDS_ M Dr. Fremann, on the 

basis of the poems he had found, immediately conjectured that the 
missing word may have been "BARDS" and that the building was so; 

sort of poetrv shop. This remains the most probable explanation, al- 

3 
though others have been offered. 

This was indeed an astounding find. But the most important single 

item in the shop was an old phtograph, dating perhaps as far back 

as the nineteenth or twentieth century! It was an actual photograph 

of Santa Claus; positive proof of his existence! It showed a small 

girl sitting on Santa Claus 's knee, and the inscription on it read, 

4 
"Merry Xmas . Ho! Ho! ho!" This photograph is now on display in the 

Museum of Ancient History. 

Because the poetry added much to available information about 

Santa Claus, modern historians have at last pieced together a fairly 

coherent picture of the man and his life. Essentiallv they have deduced 



2 

Dr. Fremann later denied the entire incident. His own story of 
the discovery is remarkable different. It is true, however, that 
Dr. Fremann chose to stand rather than sit during the entire meeting 
of the NAA in which his discoveries were announced. 
3 

Professor Kelton suggested "CARDS", but was unable to relate 
this to the noetry. 
4 

Modern archaeologists now believe that Xmas" was the little- 
girl's name. 



that Santa Claus must have been some sort of ruler or king of the 
Western Hemisphere and perhaps Europe. His home "as in the far North, 
no doubt Canada, and there he lived for most of the year. His birth- 
day, December 25, was a national holiday, and every year at that time 
he would distribute gifts to his subjects. Naturally he was very 
popular; all his subjects loved and appreciated him. Rut despite his 
great fame and favor he made only one small contribution to the tech- 
nology of his age: lie evidently invented a primitive type of aircraft 
in the shape of a sleigh. The operating principle of this device is 
presently only imperfectly understood, but apparently it ^ T as an ef- 
fective one. Nothing else is definitely known about Santa Claus except 
that he lived to be very old. He probably died about the close of the 
twentieth century, just before the Great War. 

The important thing about the Fremann expedition and the Santa 
Claus discovery is that it illustrates very clearly the value of 
archaelogy in the reconstruction of the ancient history. Without the aic 1 
of archaeology the present generation might have been entirely ignorant 
of one of the great figures of the past — Santa Claus. 

Larry Raner 



u 





usic was a nice but monotonous concept to me when I was 
eight years old and just starting to take piano lessons. I 
said that I wanted to learn mainly because my brother could play and 
since he was older than I was, he was important in my eyes. I guess 
Mother did not realize that this was the motivation for my desire. 
But then she was probably excited to think that the fourth of her 
five offspring might have talent also. Nevertheless, she and my 
music teacher could not have encouraged me into a more wonderful world 
it they had consciously tried to. A new door of life opened for me. 
I became a child prodigy at the piano. 

In this new world I discovered that music satisfied and ful- 
filled a need within me to express character and personality. I had 
no idea that I had this need until I felt my heart being mystically 
drawn into expressions of anger, sorrow, and sheer ecstasy. 

These moods represent the more enjoyable type of classical 
music compared to the mechanical "must" of tedious practice playing 
scales. Nevertheless these unappealing exercises presented a challenge 
to me once a new light was shed upon them by a wise, experienced 
teacher. My hands, I knew, needed to be relaxed and supple to move 
lightly and accurately over the keys. Scales, two and three part in- 
ventions, and various forms of exacting finger work are the most im- 
portant way of conditioning the hands correctly but they can be very 
boring and most unexciting if one does not approach them with a proper 
attitude. 



My understanding teacher instilled in me the fun of skimming 
keys and occasionly racing as quickly as possible, both hands at once, 
up and down the keyboard. She shared with me her knowledge of devel- 
oping an acute sense of listening for equality of tones, crisp, clear 
sounds and even rhythm. Scales took on a new dimension of fun and 
enjoyment while accomplishing necessary business with the stiff fingers 
and tight hands. The only part of music appreciation she could not 
quite suit was the straight memorization of keys with sharps and flats. 
But I was so anxious to continue with the adventure of what I was ac- 
complishing that I easily learned these minute necessities. 

My talent seemed to develop easily and fluently and it eagerly 
absorbed new music of different kinds. My childlike mind dreamed of 
the day I could play with an orchestra accompanying me or in front of 
a crowd of enthusiastic music lovers. I never ceased to be thrilled 
while I played a rampant, war-inspired etude by Chopin or a complex 
polonaise full of beautiful harmonies. With music and a piano I did 
not need a person to understand me or my childish behavior. I ex- 
pressed myself on an instrument that sympathized with me and harmonized 
in an inspiring manner. 

The moment my teacher headed my talent into the right direction 
I began to mature-my inner self began to unfold and develop. This 
experience need never to have ended then or to end now. I am ashamed 
to admit that my immaturity overwhelmed the bit of maturity that was 
evolving within me and I did not continue with my music after I was 
fifteen. 

However, the bittersx^eet memory of the world I knew far better 
as a child than I do as a young adult continues to invade the secrecies 



of my heart as the most wonderful years of my life. 

Linda Woodberry 



A &TOC& 



t was spring, I remember the old apple tree in my back yard 
was bursting into a cloud of pink fragrance. As I walked 
toward it my heels sank in the springy, wet hummocks of grass, making 
a sound like sponges being squeezed and absorbing again. 

The sun was bright, yet it was cool and humid, the trunk of the 
tree glistening like a wet serpent from last night's shower. As I 
settled down on the swing beaded with dew, I anticipated another lazy, 
monotonous morning of the spring vacation. 

So began the weary routine — kick, lean, kick, lean; I became 
so absorbed I scarely noticed the dull, popping sound and the short, 
quick lengthenings of the rope supporting the swing. I looked up, 
startled, just in time to see the last frazzled strand part. 

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the mud under the broken 
swing, as disgusted as any six-year-old could be. I wondered what 
to do next, now that the pattern of the day was broken. Then I de- 
cided, come what may, I still would do some swinging. 

I analyzed the situation, scrutinizing every fiber of the broken 
rope in my soiled hand. I would climb the tree. 

I had seen my father put up the swing the summer before and I 
knew how extremely difficult it would be for me, because of my age, 
and because I was ladderless. Oh, I knew where there was a ladder, 
sort of a step-like affair, in reality a part of a broken slide, with 
rusty, dagger-like bolts and nails sticking out of the front where 
the slide should have been; but it would take too long to drag it 



across the yard to the tree. 

With the broken rope between my teeth, I began climbing the 
slippery, glistening trunk. When I reached the first branch, I was 
panting and soaking. The second branch found me dripping, dirty, ex- 
hausted, and disgusted. 

The situation was getting desperate. My hands were numb from 
the cold, wet branches. My arms ached as I had never known them to 
aahe before. But thankfully the swing's supporting branch with screw- 
eyes was directly above me and I could reach it without too much effort. 
By standing on tip- toe and "walking" hand over hand on the top branch, 
I reached the fork of the swing branch. The swing was so constructed 
as to go back and forth parallel to the branch I was standing on, fast- 
ened with screw-eyes to the farther fork over my head. 

As I strained to reach the screw-eyes, something unexpected hap- 
pened. The branch under me broke. It was rotten through to the core, 
and my weight had snapped it off. 

There I was, foolishly hanging on with both hands, a few feet 
from the top of the swing, twelve feet off the ground, my soaked 
sneakered feet treading the air noiselessly in the lull of the crash 
from the broken branch. Realizing that I was still holding the broken 
rope in my nouth, I spat it out and called for help. 

In a few moments one of the neighborhood children came over 
dragging the spiked slide ladder after him. He put it under the branch 
where I was hanging, but my feet still dangled far above the top step. 
The slightest miscalculation of distance meant disaster. The rusty 
spikes glistened menacingly. I ached from head to soaking toe, and 
was rapidly losing my grip with those numbed hands. It seemed like 



an eternity of waiting. 

Then everything happened at once. My mother called, slamming 
the screen door. As I turned my head to answer, I lost my grip and 
fell, missing the top step and raking the backs of my legs open on 
the triumphant spikes. I truned both ankles on the bumpy, soggy 
ground, got up, and turned collapsing in a bloody, aching, soaking, 
sobbing heap in my mother's arms. 

I learned a lot that day. I learned not to set impossible 
goals. I learned it was best to rely on the help of fellow man in 
times of need. I learned not to let the whim of the moment 
decide my actions; I learned to evaluate circumstances; and I learned 
my capabilities. And most important, I learned that my parents really 
loved me, after all. 

Brian Bowley 





oDX) 




f you want a full-time job, try being a student. First make 
sure you are willing to work hard, have many discouragements, 
stay up late at night, and arise early in the morning. Then get to 
work. The first thing you will have to so is get up around six- 
thirty every morning so that you can make your seven-thirty class. 
You will be there for eighty minutes listening to lectures, taking 
notes, and sometimes taking test. Then you will have a long break- 
ten minutes. And before you know it, you are off to your next class 
for another long session. I must warn you, however, some of the 
lectures are not very interesting. They will seem more like three 
hours than eighty minutes. If you are lucky all your classes will 
be over by noon except the day you have lab. Then you will spend 
from one-thirty to five-thirty peering through a microscope or doing 
some impossible experiment. 

At five-thirty you are done with your classes but only half 
done with your work. Now you have to study until all hours of the 
night. But don't be discouraged with this schedule. After you com- 
plete your courses you will be richly rewarded. You will get your 
credits from the college, you will get a pat on your back from your 
parents, and most of all, you will have a deep staisf action because 
you have done your job and you have done it well, 

Helen Sickel 



Tre €>ms 





uring our vacation last summer, my wife and I enjoyed a cruise 
of Cape Cod. We set sail from Martha's Vineyard for Nantucket 
Island under a following breeze and heavy overcast. We were boiling 
along with a force four breeze and a slight following sea. Diane went 
below to prepare lunch, leaving me alone on deck. 

The almost silent hiss of the hull gliding through the water 
and the gentle rool of the easterly swells lulled me into a feeling 
of complete peace and security. Watching the hypnotic swing of the 
compass, I felt superior and somewhat a master of the sea. I 
based my "superconf idence" on a very simple formula. I thought, "I 
have planned on the unexpected, and I am prepared to overcome any 
situation I might have to face." 

As the boat silently forged ahead, I looked around me and saw 
why my "formula" was perfect. The Dale Jeanne , designed by Sparkman 
and Stevens, is excelled by no other twenty-six foot boat in windward 
performance and positive rudder control. She is made of fiberglass 
and heavily constructed throughout. I rigged her to exceed all^safety 
standards. When normal stainless steel standing rigging called 
for eight thousand pounds test, I used twelve thousand pounds test. 
I composed my running rigging of dacron and nylon, thirty per cent 
above the standard expected load. All the winches and cleats were 
selected for strength, durability, and reputation for dependability. 
"With the use of common sense," I thought, "my sturdy craft can 
survive anything the elements can dish out." 



The sudden clatter of a pan and the appearance of Diane coming 
up the ladder with the lunch snapped me out of my daydream. With a 
startled look she shouted, "What's that?" pointing behind me. There it 
was, a sailor's greatest fear! A sudden wind squall was almost upon us! 
I gave the tiller to Diane and rushed forward to lower the sails. Be- 
fore I even got to the halyards, Diane had our bow into the wind. 
As I unfastened the cleat and began lowering the sails, I felt a 
great shudder. The bow seemed to rise nearly a foot out of the water, 
settling the stern sharply. I held on for dear life as the seventy to 
eighty mile per hour wind hammered the slack mainsail into ray face. 
The sea built up in a matter of seconds as I struggled to secure the 
flapping sails. The seas were already breaking over the bow and the 
deck was awash at times. Diane was white with fright when I finally 
tumbled into the cocpit. With the aid of the inboard engine, I altered 
course to run free before the wind. I could feel relief overwhelm me 
as the boat returned to my control. Only by the timely observation 
of my wife were we saved from being caught completely unaware. 

As we raced before the hurricane-force winds, my mind envisioned 
the catastrophe which almost befell us. I could picture the straining 
stays pulling at the chain plates, buckling the deck. In such a force, 
the inevitable would surely have been a dismasting, resulting in a 
possible broach. 

Since we weathered the storm without any damage or injury, I 
could have said, "See? We can take anything." But I know it was only 
by ehance that Diane came on deck and spotted the storm coming up 
fast behind us. 

I had prepared the D ale Jeanne to take anything the elements 



could "dish out", but I forgot to prepare the skipper by slicing off 
his superiority complex. It may be interesting to note that I am 
entertaining the thought of installing a rear view mirror to aid my 
navigation during occasional daydreaming. 

Alan R. Gotlieb 



£ 



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o 



unk it, the war's over!" My passengers jeer as they pile into 
f~V J J my old beat-up station wagon. However, it doesn't bother me 
because this is the most practical car I've ever owned, how else could 
all ten of us go on the church social every week? Some people say 
my wagon is horrible looking. I call it practical because I've never 
had to wash it or explain any of the dents on it since I got it a year 
ago. Some people laugh when I take it to Sunday School. Nevertheless 
they too seem to think it is practical when they ask to use it on a 
Saturday work party. Although my brother jokes about it continually, 
he finds it very practical transportation when his car breaks down. 
In fact, almost everyone feels that my station wagon is practical when 
they have to pay their car note and I don't! 

Clinton Eastman 




U« — Jhe rumpled, sweat stained hat, the gray stubble on his weathered 

face, the worn work shoes, the musty suit jacket with dried 
hor?e manure in the lining, the baggy trousers, and the ever-present 
cigar Stub combined with slow Vermont drawl to make Winnie the picture 
of a true Yankee Vermonter. I realized that he was just this when I 
engaged him in the following conversation one exhilarating spring morn 
in the shadow of the cliff that hovered over our cabin in the knoll. 

"It was real cold last night," I said as a conversation opener. 

"Yep," he replied curtly. 

"I didn't realize there would be such extreme differences in temp- 
erature between night and day." 

"Most usually is," he answered indifferently. 

"I tried to find a subject that would interest him enough to start 
him talking. "These bears were hoofing quite close to the camp last 
night, weren't they?" 

"Yet. A feller could do a mite well trappin' them thar' bar'. 
Why, Ive se'ed 'em brung out of these 'ere woods 'bout as big as Duffee's 
sow down thar'," he said with more exuberance. 

My success on this subject prompted me to ask, "Did you ever have 
any luck trapping bear?" 

"Wal," he began, warming to the subject, "last year 'bout this time I 
figured on buildin' me a 'bar trap. Wal, I built 'er nice and solid 
out 'a some ole' pipe an' I set 'er down over thar' by them:, spruces . 
Wal, it warn't but three day a'fore I got me a bar'. He ' uz just a 
'lil thing, 'bout a hundred-fifty dollar for ' im so me 'n the boy drug 



it down to the farm there an' set her out in front of the barn. Wal 
twarn't long 'fore some kids from Belvedere come down 'an let ' im go. 
I was like to kill 'em 'cause they broke the door in the cage whilst 
they was managalin' around. I never did find 'em out though, but I 
thin' that half-wit Martin boy was amongst 'em." 

"Did you fix the trap?" I asked. 

"Yep. We drug it back 'ere and set it up agin, but it's been 
nigh over a month an' we ain't caught one yet. They is a crossin' 
light down by that thar' pine that's got track like the path to a slop 
trough, but I think they's smellin' it out so I'll move it light up 
by my second meadow there', but I shor'd like to settle with them thar' 
kids from Belveder," he replied, his temper rising. 

"Kow's the farm?" I asked, detouring from the touchy subject of 
the bear. 

"Wal, I been doin all light, but I got throwed from the hay-wagon 
the day a-fore yesterday and my lumbaga's been actin' up since then," 
he returned, more lanquidly. 

"I guess you're going to have to get a tractor pretty soon, aren't 
you?" 

"Wal, I don't think so. That tar' wagon has done good by me. 
Don't cost nothin' to keep up and the horse is much cheaper than any 
ole' tractor with gaselene and all'd be. I reckon I got purty good 
havin the wagon and the horses." 

"But," I said, "you could get your work done so much faster with 
a power tractor." 

"Wal, twas good enough for fifty year so far an' I guess we'll 
git along the rest 'a the time light the way we are," he said with an 



air of finality and settled back in his chair, snug in the belief that 
he had put another city^slicker in his place. 

Russell Mollica 




Z^S 



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ave you ever found yourself faced with a problem of trying 
to start a car when you do not know what is wrong with it? You know 
you have a full tank of gas, the battery is fine, there are no loose 
wires, and everything else is all right. But no matter how much you 
turn the ignition or press on the accelerator, the engine will not 
start. To make things worse, it seems you always find yourself in 
the middle of a busy intersection. If you have ever been in a sit- 
uation like this, the only possible solution is to sit in your car 
and wait for your angel of mercy — a policeman. And of course when trios 
to start it, it just naturally does. All it needed was a man's touch. 

Elizabeth Ann "lacDonald 















I 




V* 




■ ♦ 



. 





o 






^ 




Dennis Adams- wrestling, smile, friendly 

Judy Agler- waitress, sociable, smile 

Karen Akins- Ralph, dedicated, Dugout 

Carol Anderson- sweet, understanding, graceful 

Tim Anderson- Teresa, cars, easy-going 

Ilanuel Aran- studious, quiet, minister 

helene Arden- "Ladybird", sophisticated, athletic 

Mary Jane Ashbrun- scholarly, quiet, fashionable 

Sharon Babcock- nurse, clown, all around 

William Baker- "tiny" skiing, shy 

Bob Barnes- "Sparky", friendly, mortician 

Bill Barror- Hawaiian, guitar music, accident-prone 

Ron Bartholomew- basketball, marbles, agreeable 

Raelyn Baublitz- slightly shy, kind, unpretentious 

James Baughman- ping pong, quiet, industrious 

Steve Bellinger- neat, bashful, gentlemanly 

Sue Best- scholarly, athletic, sweet, quiet 

Terry Bilyou- "Sarge , "Sigma, ministry 

Don Bish- flirt, printer, eyes 

Brian Bowley- artistic, quiet, reserved 

Linda Bowman- polite, trio, secretary 

Pat Bragg- flirt, accent, intrmurals 

Bob Brenner- nice, dark hair, pleasant 

Robert Brickley- sensible, comedian, easygoing 

Doris Brown, industrious, cheerleader, pleasant 



Brent Burgess- Cambridge, singer, funny 

Steve Burns- folks inger, Nancy, courteous 

Dan Butz- quartets, academic, quiet 

Larry Calhoun- shy, hard-worker, prof's son 

Diane Carlsen- accent, individualist, carefree 

Russ Carlson- quiet, strong, P.K. 

Don Carter- freckles, cars, nice guy 

Bill Casey- "Mainiac", "Toni", hard worker 

Doug Caswell- comedian, "tiger", DeMolay 

Lynda Cerrato- quiet, Ken, dedicated 

Dick Christy- Navy, "good kid", wrestler 

Barbara Clark- reserved, Bill, smiling 

Doug Clark- reserved, basketball, tall 

Reggie Clark- Foxburro, talented, Honda 

Sharon Clemmons- artistic, kind, considerate 

James Clifton- tall, hamsters, skiing 

Laura Colella- accent, Cindy's friend, nice 

Janice Cox- Dwight, studious, Ohioan 

John Cress- basketball, "Jack", shy 

Cynthia Crofts- "mother", sailing, agreeable 

Frank Cucchiara- "canoe", writer, easy going 

Yvonne Davis- Delta, intelligent, athletic 

Waureen Davis- honor roll, considerate, sensible 

Charlotte DeNoyer- dependable, courteous, out-going 

Dick Dever- "Apache", Marlene, Floridian 

Ruth Dickson- nurse, "girl in the hall", neat 

Sandy Dickinson- short, pianist, amiable 



Leslie DiGravio- understanding, helpful , kind 

Ray Dinsmore- intellectual, witty, hard worker 

Karen Doane- sincere, trio, "Chuck" 

Wayne Drake- music, European tour, accent 

Lloyd Dreibelbis- "Gomer" , comediane, shy 

Nancy Dufford- ministry, dedicated, helpful 

Terry Dunn- German, easy going, all around 

Donna DuVall- intelligent, cute, blonde 

Clinton Lastman- sharp, Clint, station wagon 

Joseph Echevarria- keen, ping pong, writer 

Bob Ellenberger- prankster, Kappa, "crazy" 

Larry Eller- baseball, talkative, kitchen 

George Emiaitt- Honda, Somerset, quiet 

Neil Estabrooke- nice, considerate, likable 

Loretta Fairburn- fashionable, reserved, sweet 

Dale Fallon- trombone, pep band, artistic 

John Fanning- all around, likable, sensible 

Robert Farrell- nice to know, writer, shy 

Peter Faux- organ, ministry, outgoing 

James, Fisher- Marlin, basketball, golf 

Virginia Fisk- intelligent, piano, quiet 

Kay Foote- dean's list, Gnaddenhutton, class secretary 

Carol Gamble- shy, smart, neat 

Linda Garrison- short, friendly, nice 

Bob Glass- "spastic", hillbilly, jokester 

John Golden- weights, sporting, "very nice" 

Norman Goodwin- Braintree, tall, neat 

Martha Bordon- lab technician, cordial, understanding 



Ken Goss- planes, collegiate, Weymouth 
Alan Gotlieb- married, writer, sailing 
Donna Gough- N. Ouincy, cordial, nice 
Kathy Gough- Dean's list, cheerleader, Karon's twin 
Karon Gough- Kathy ' s twin, smile, cheerleader 
Pat Greco- Sigma, outgoing, Maine 
Peg Gregory- congenial, secretary, fun 
Steve Gunnerson, smile, student council, Akron 
Lester Hamilton- understanding, likable, willing 
Donna Hammond- Maine, outspoken, petite 
Dave Hanley- smart, nice, cooperative 
Barbara Hapworth- likable, shy, reserved 
Albert Hardy- Duke, Buddha, shy 
Nanci Harlacher- Dugout, Dick, music 
Wayne Hassinger- real tall, reserved, Kappa 
John Hawkins- sincere, ministry, devoted 
Tom Ileim- Mr. Basketball, short, courteous 
Pat Henderson- Bob, pleasant, nursing 
Nancy Higgins- softball, Baptist P,K., witty 
Shelton Hogan- Dick, Nanci, personable 
Sylvia Holland- little known , reserved, quiet 
Stanley Koopengardner- Hoopy, quartets, tenor 
Sue Hopcraft- accent, quiet, tall 
Darlene Hosner- Darby, mischievious , trio 
Nancy Houghton- sincere, smile, Crusader volleyball 
William Howard- like to know, courteous, kind 
Linda Hunt- sweet, nice, likable 



Kay Hunter- sophisticated, quiet, nice to know 

Marilyn Kunsberger- mischievous, talkative, contacts 

Janice Mitchell- waitress, organized, friendly 

Russ Tlollica- Helen, tall, Chet 

Lynne Morse- musical, Maine, independent 

Alan Morvay- mechanic, photographer, ingenuitive 

William Mowen- Penna, easy going, all around guy 

Marcia Mundy- Akron, agreeable, sensible 

Mark Murphy- convertable, sportsman, jokester 

Roger Myers- dedicated, friendly, slightly shy 

Tom Nichols- shy, courteous, thoughtful 

Gayle Nickerson- athletic, individual, accent 

Mary Ellen Nies- agreeable, fashionable, friendly 

Mary O'Brien- "Molly", dedicated, shy 

Bill Oxenford' sincere, blonde, tall 

Roger Paine- quiet, helpful, cooperative 

Mayriard Parker-r "Jerry", hard working, pleasant 

Sandy Parkman- talkative, all around, friendly 

Dave Paterno- intelligent, easy going, cooperative 

Steve Patton- chess, electrician, intellectual 

Barbara Perry- Bonnie, clever, blonde 

Dave Perry- flirt, outgoing, individualist 

Alton Phillips- all around, considerate, hard working 

Laurilee Phillips, musical, southern, warm 

Farren Pillsbury- Sigma man, nut, Farmington 

Bruce Plath- "Fang", slightly shy, individualist 

Jeanne Polley- Melrose, friendly, outgoing 

Gary Powell- prankster, collegiate, nice 



Marsha Rafuse- congenial, all around girl, helpful 

Jim Rapalje- mischievous, independent, helpful 

Larry Raper- studious, individual, witty 

Barb Rhodes- dedicated, humorous, quiet 

Floyd Rhodes- horses, Pittsburgh, collegiate 

Craig Richey- ambitious, loquacoius , outgoing 

Dave Rogers- sensible, cooperative, keen 

John Rollston- clever, complimentary, socialable 

Jim Romanowiz- kind, shy, athletic 

Grace Rosenberry- West Chester, sophisticated, reserved 

Joyce Rummel- Kind, sensible, all around 

Norm St. John- prankster, outgoing, motorcycle 

Eill Schafer- easygoing, likable, sports cars 

Nick Schneider- Pittsburgh, jokester, agreeable 

John Schrader- courteous, friendly, hard working 

Sally Schwanke- considerate, understanding, smile 

Roberta Shackelford- sensible, polite, sociable 

Dennis Shafer- great guy, agreeable, collegiate 

Sharren Shelton- horses, laugh, quiz team 

Gary Shetler- weight lifter, intelligent, sportsman 

Bill Shoenberger- tall, easygoing, sensible 

Don Shook- friendly, snappy, athletic 

Sharron Shumway- reserved, witty, considerate 

Helen Sickel- Greenbook, librarian, outgoing 

Kathy Simers- studious, shy, conscientous 

Elaine Sloan- sensible, smile, helpful 

Newell Smith- Crusader, comedian, Rochester 



Steve Smith- ping-pong, athletics, Sigma 

Del Smith- Friendly, basketball, carefree 

John Somers- easygoing, sociable, great guy 

Dave Sparks- tall, musician, studious 

Kathy Stanton- collegiate, generous, understanding 

Carol Steinmeyer- considerate, nice, slightly quite 

Ilartha Stewart- shy, intelligent, agreeable 

Fred Stone- music, athletic, witty 

Janet Strong- collegiate, hi-fi, reserved 

Tim Tarr- music, scholar, weight lifter 

Al Tassinari- Spainish, golfer, smile 

Linda Taylor- "Luigi", pleasant, courteous 

Sue Terry- secretary, friendly, fashionable 

Pete Theodore- Diana, prankster, easygoing 

Larry Thompson- piano, traveler, great guy 

John Thompson- dependable, agreeable, good to know 

Donna Tinlham- giggles, archery, generous 

Cindy Tomlin- Rick, sweet, Milville 

Marge Toms- vivacious, good natured, Dave 

John Totin- "mighty mite", gymnastic, reliable 

Sharon Townsend- flirt, "swampbuggy" . accent 

Veora Tressler- "Cookie", basketball, funny 

William Turner- dependable, Bill, Horses 

Dave Van Koewyk- independent, jokes ter, cooperative 

Carol Viccione- talkative, energetic, fashionable 

Dave Villeneuve- reserved, chess, conscientous 

Dorothy Vine- ''Dotty", friendly, understanding 



Doug Von Iderstein- smile, happy-go-lucky , considerate 

Joan Wallace- sensible, understanding, likable 

John Ward- "crickets", tall, prankster 

Ron Warfle- "hi kids", comedian, athletic 

Shirley Waugh- shy, Maine, hard working 

Paul Werner- collegiate, all around, great guy 

Sue Whalen- lab technician, helpful, smile 

Joe Whetsel- "goldie-locks" , ambitious, sensible 

Dale Whitman- funny, courteous, friendly 

liancy Whitman- flirt, talkative, vivacious 

Sandra Wild- likable, slighty shy, easygoing 

Glennis Williams- talkative, hopeful, class-minded 

Jack Willy- Crusader, likable, real friendly 

Mary Winters- conscientous , witty pleasant 

John Wood- patriot, dedicated, sensible 

Linda Woodbury** -smile , prankster, outgoing 

Carol Wright- intelligent, sweet, "wong" 

Wes Wright- slightly shy, level-headed, cooperative 

Brenda Zutell- scholarly, York, "zootell" 




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